


Mitosis

by just_lilo



Series: Bad Guys [2]
Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: F/F, Flashbacks, Heavy Angst, Incest, Self-Hatred, Sibling Incest, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28893408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_lilo/pseuds/just_lilo
Summary: Amy is sick. There's only one cure in her eyes.
Relationships: Amy Dallon/Victoria Dallon
Series: Bad Guys [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118978
Kudos: 14





	Mitosis

Mitosis.

A cell, following its most base programming, splits as an individual unit into two daughter cells. To our human eyes, it looks instantaneous, a crack down the middle that blossoms into new life. But to the cell, it is a cycle, a process, one coded into it on every level.

This is how the world works. Life, death, and every breath in between.

Families are the same way. They might grow as a unit, two happy children and their world-weary parents. They might fracture into separate parts, two daughters all grown up and gone their separate ways. But along the way, there is a process, a precise one, a science to it all.

Division doesn’t happen instantly. It happens in stages.

This is stage one. The stage where I realized I was in love with my sister.

It was a process in and of itself, coming to terms with my sickness. The first and most important thing I had to do was recognize it as such.

Back when I was little, when Mark and Carol were still new to the whole parenting business, I reveled in sick days. Maybe it’s a little fucked up for a kid to be welcoming the flu, but it’s true. That first tickle in my throat, the telltale chills that ran through my body, it meant at  _ least _ half a week consigned to my bed.

That suited me just fine, of course. I hated school. I couldn’t tell you why. My sister always had a grand time making friends and knocking heads in PE class. Me, I shied away from the hustle and bustle of it all. The sweaty boys, the catty girls. The only company I felt safe in was my sister’s.

But anyway, I was talking about sickness, childhood sickness. I learned to enjoy the time off, the confinement to bed, even the nastiness of each cold. It wasn’t until Carol found me shivering and gasping under my covers one day, burning with a dangerous fever, that I learned to recognize the sickness. To respect it.

So yeah, I know that I’m sick. But that’s not the whole story.

I first realized it on one of those elementary school sick days. Mark and Carol were off heroing and working, respectively, and I had the house to myself. I had swaddled myself in my blankets to keep the afternoon sun out of my eyes.

That’s when she came home from school. I heard the front door slam, the rustle of keys and a backpack, the slap of bare feet against the floor. I heard the door to my own room creak open.

Then I felt it. Her hand, still cold from the autumn air, rested on my forehead. In an instant I was awake, aware, more lucid than any feverish child had a right to be. Even back then, I felt that spark from her touch.

“Get well soon, Ames,” she whispered to me. Those words have echoed through my ears for the last decade. 

She grazed her hand against the nape of my neck, brushing scratchy, brown curls out of the way. I didn’t dare move—I didn’t even understand what I was feeling—so I just leaned into it. If she noticed I was conscious, she didn’t say anything.

For a few precious minutes, we stayed like that. Her attention was drawn elsewhere far too soon. She left me with a kiss on the crown of my head.

“Love you, sis.”

My heart pounded, deafening in the void that was my empty bedroom. I wanted that hand, my sister’s hand, against my head again. I wanted to feel it on my neck, my cheek, my everything. Gradually, the feeling settled to a soft sizzle in my gut. I might have even forgotten about it.

That was hardly the end of it all.

It didn’t start to clarify for me until middle school, as with most questions children struggle to answer. 

We found ourselves marooned at school long after the afternoon bell rang. Ever the athlete, my sister had elected to skip the regular bus so she could squeeze in some individual basketball practice. Against my better judgment, I’d remained to keep her company.

Most kids wouldn’t be allowed on Arcadia grounds without supervision, but we were, of course, the exception. If you couldn’t trust the kids of two superheroes alone, who could you trust in the whole school? At least that’s how my mom had argued it.

Around four in the afternoon, the gym teacher shuffled off to his car without a goodbye. I can’t remember his name, only the way he used to look at my sister. That’s how most of those early years were, a sea of faces where only my sister’s stood out.

Once the old man left, it was just me and her. Alone in the gym, quiet but for the echoey bounces of a basketball against the wood floor.

I watched her without speaking as she dribbled the ball. Up and down in a blur. Ba-thump, ba-thump, like the beat of my heart.

My gaze trailed from her hands to her graceful arms, the heaving shoulders and sweat-streaked hair. Then back down, ogling her school jersey tied up under her boobs and her tantalizingly brief gym shorts. Her legs, pale as mine normally, were flushed a deep pink from exertion. My vision blurred around the edges.

“Ames. Amy.” It took me a while to realize she was calling me. I met her eyes, and she gave me a smile. “Don’t worry. I promise I won’t be much longer.”

I knew she didn’t think much of it. But my own mind was racing. I didn’t know much about relationships, or lust, or the anguish that was to come. I did recognize the telltale heat that flushed through my chest, and I recognized that it was  _ wrong _ .

That was when I knew.

**Author's Note:**

> So for one thing "The Bad Guy" isn't dead, just sleeping. For another thing, I've got a whole pile of fics to dish out in the coming days and weeks.


End file.
